Taking the distance of the Earth from the Sun, in round numbers, at Ninety-Five Millions of Miles, pretty well for a bird probably weighing some six pounds not merely to make himself heard by the God of Day, but by one single crow to startle Dan Phœbus from his sleep, and force him _nolens volens_ to show his shining morning face at Cladich. NORTH. Out of Science, we seldom think of the vastness of the System of the Universe. Our hearts and imaginations diminish it for the delight of love. In our usual moods we are all Children with respect to Nature; and gather up Stars as if they were flowers of the field—to form a coronet for Neæra’s hair. TALBOYS. What ailed poor dear Doctor Beattie at Cocks in general? I never could understand the Curse. “Proud harbinger of Day, Who scarest my visions with thy clarion shrill, Fell Chanticleer! who oft hath reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! Oh, to thy cursed scream discordant still Let Harmony aye shut her gentle ear; Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear.” You Poets, in your own persons, are a savage set. NORTH. I am not a Poet, sir; nor will I allow any man with impunity to call me so. TALBOYS. But Doctor Beattie was, and a Professor of Moral Philosophy to boot, at Aberdeen or St Andrews, or some other one of our ancient Universities—for every stone-and-lime building in Scotland is ancient; and. goodness me! hear him cursing cocks, and dooming the whole Gallic race to every variety of cruel and ignominious deaths, in revenge for having been disturbed from his morning dreams by a Gentleman with Comb and Wattles crowing on his own Dunghill, in red jacket, speckled waistcoat, and grey breeks, the admiration of Earochs and How-Towdies. NORTH. Doctor Beattie was a true Poet—and had an eye and an ear for Nature. Yet now and then he shut both— “Hence the scared owl on pinions grey _Breaks from the rustling boughs_; And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose.” I have seen that Stanza quoted many thousand times as exquisite. It is criminal. An owl was never heard, scared or unscared, to “break from the rustling boughs.” Silently as a leaf he leaves his perch; you hear no rustle, for he makes none—any more than a ghost. TALBOYS. Nor are the other lines good—for they present the image of a long rectilinear flight, which that of an owl in no circumstances is; and, in a fright, he would take the first blind shelter. NORTH.